Under my Umbrella
by LeFay Strent
Summary: It's a dark and stormy night, and Alfred's alone and hella sad. But don't worry Al. The British are coming. USUK rated T for stupidity


It's a dark and stormy night. Alfred sits on a street corner, alone, in his sorrow of depressedness. He tilts back his head, stares straight into Heaven's descending tears, and screams, "Whyyyy?! Why do you cry on me, Sky?"

"Probably because you don't have an umbrella."

Blinking in surprise, Alfred looks to the side where a new figure is standing. It's a blond guy, holding an umbrella. His eyes are like emerald laser beams shooting out from the shadows. They glance over Alfred's drenched figure.

Alfred looks at himself as if just realizing that he is in fact not water-resistant.

"Oh yeah . . . I kinda forgot to bring one, what with all of my depressedness."

"That's not happy at all," the stranger comments. He shrugs awkwardly under his umbrella. Averting his eyes nervously, he scuttles inch-by-inch closer. This brings Alfred under his cover, just as the mother bird does when she pushes her young into the armpit of her wings. Alfred just stares.

"Um . . ."

"Arthur."

" _Que_?"

" _Me llamo_."

"Ah. _Soy de_ . . . _yo_ . . . Uh yeah, I'm Alfred."

"Smashing," Arthur says Britishly, 'cause he's British.

The rain patters at the umbrella. The two stand there, shoulders nearly touching, and looking anywhere but at each other. Observing the streets, they both wonder to themselves where all the people went to. Like, there aren't even any cars coming down the street. Weird.

Arthur coughs, "So, why are you depressedness?"

"Hm? Oh, I dropped my burg of the ham."

". . . hamburger?"

"Yeah, look."

Lying on the puddled street by their feet is a soggy, half-eaten burger.

"That's . . . tragic."

"Totally," Alfred agrees.

Silence, save for rain. Seconds pass staring down at the casualty.

"You could always get another one?" Arthur suggests.

Alfred turns away in shame. "Alas, I have not the currency to procure my heart's desire."

Hearing this tragic tragedy, Arthur places a hand on his shoulder. Alfred looks up at his determined expression. "Would you like me to buy you a burger?"

Alfred's eyes widen and his heart falters. "You would do that? You would buy me one?"

"Hm, I'd buy you five if you want."

"Okay! Let's go!" Alfred says hastily, grabbing Arthur's hand and rushing down the sidewalk.

"Why are we running?!" Arthur yells. He struggles to keep up amidst the downpour, one hand in Alfred's, his other occupied with keeping the umbrella over the two of them. It's a feeble effort in the race of hunger.

"We have to get there before the burgers get away!" Alfred calls back logically.

Arthur is perplexed. He has never heard of sentient burgers before. Either this Alfred bloke is missing a few vital brain cells, or Arthur simply hasn't experienced enough of the world.

"Look!" Alfred exclaims, pulling them to a sudden stop. Arthur nearly falls but Alfred has a tight grip on him with his manly hand. Alfred's other hand points spastically at something in the distance, set high in the sky. It glows against the black backdrop of cloud-riddled sky. A beacon of hope to wearied souls.

"McDonalds?" Arthur asks, staring up at the giant, radiant M.

Alfred nods, staring in awe beside him. "The land of paradise."

Arthur frowns. "Isn't that a bit much?"

"No," Alfred says, and Arthur is taken aback at the soft smile he wears. "McDonalds is a magical place. It's where the healing begins."

Arthur thinks better of disillusioning him. Behind his water-spattered glasses, Alfred's eyes are lost in the past. If Alfred had spiritual experiences at fast food restaurants, who is Arthur to ruin the moment? He doesn't see the harm in indulging childish grandeurs here and there.

Arthur walks ahead, breaking Alfred out of his daze (mostly because he is suddenly getting rained on). He watches Arthur pause to look back over his shoulder.

"Well?" the Brit says, lips tugging upward. "Where's all the fire you had a minute ago? Those hamburgers aren't going to eat themselves."

Alfred stands there captivated by Arthur's radioactive eyeholes until his stomach loudly reminds him why they are there in the first place. He breaks out into a grin and runs to catch up.

Inside of a McDonalds in the middle of a stormy night, you shouldn't expect to find many customers. Just the bored night-staff manning the counter and grill. Those poor Homo sapiens.

Alfred is blind to the air of misery and bounces up to the front counter.

"I'd like five Big Macs, please!"

The lady takes his order (and Arthur's money) and yells back towards the kitchen for five Big Macs. The guy manning the grill jumps to it and begins a series of twirls and intense dabbing as he prepares the food.

"Why…why is he doing that?" Arthur asks, gesturing to the boogying cook.

The lady at the counter gives him a 'duh' look. "It's standard procedure."

"Yeah, Arthur," Alfred chimes in. "It's just standard procedure."

"My mistake then," Arthur concedes but still doesn't understand. Random dance numbers are lost on him.

Alfred laughs and slaps a hand on Arthur's shoulder, telling the lady at the counter, "Can you believe this guy? Haha!" But she's already returned to her dazed expression that says, "I'm not here. I've gone to a better place to cope with this customer-service agony."

Alfred continues to talk to the lady at the counter, never questioning the fact that she doesn't ever respond. While they wait, Arthur looks around at the barren tables and the dark windows that separate them from the worsening tempest. He should have been home by now, with his cat, drinking five barrels of tea ('cause he's british, lol). And yet he's taken quite the detour with this American here, all in the name of being a considerate person.

"Arthur, ya coming or what?"

He refocuses on said American. While lost in thought, Alfred had received his tray of diabetes. But one man's diabetes is another man's fuel. It's like Popeye the sailor man and spinach, but in reverse. Hamburgers gave Alfred special powers, the most prominent one being the ability to not die from hunger.

Arthur follows Alfred towards the sea of tables and booths. Arthur goes to pick a table in the middle but Alfred reacts as if he were about to beat a baby seal.

"What are you doing?" Alfred says. "Window seats are over here dude!"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because we're the main characters. We gotta sit at the window and look important."

Arthur doesn't think that is all that necessary, but Alfred is adamant. They sit in a booth by the windows. Across from him, Alfred looks upon the feast in glee. Arthur cannot fathom why he's as happy as if someone handed him the Holy Grail. And it's still doubtful that McDonald's is anything magical or healing. This American is strange and Arthur ponders if he should have stopped for him in the first place.

"Here, go ahead," Alfred says, interrupting Arthur's musings of awkwardness. He nudges one of the burgers across the table.

"You . . . don't want it?" Arthur asks, afraid that his gift to a stranger was not appreciated.

But that's where he was wrong. Alfred did very much appreciate that he had stopped for him. Him, a mourning man sitting amongst a typhoon of water and feels. Arthur didn't have to do that, nor did he have to quintuple Alfred's loss. And sure, Alfred could eat five Big Macs by himself easy-peasy. Still, Arthur had stopped for him and listened to his problems when he didn't have to.

And that meant something.

"You _did_ pay for them," Alfred reminds him. "Think of it as my way of saying thank you."

Arthur is touched by the generosity, but covers it with a smirk. "Food _is_ better when you have someone to share it with," he decides and begins to eat the burger. It's not a holy grail, but it's not that bad either.

Alfred smiles back. "Exactly."

By the time they finish their shared meal and step out to brave the storm, the rains have quieted to a drizzle.

"How anti-climactic," Arthur comments on the weather. He opens up his umbrella in preparation to leave.

"Not really," Alfred denies. "In Bollywood movies, rain is when all the big romantic scenes happen."

"The cook _did_ dance, and they are known for their dancing."

"Yep, so now all that's left is the kiss."

"Pardon?"

Alfred rolls his eyes. "Dude, this is a romance. We gotta."

Arthur stammers with all the grace of a bleating goat. "And just who said that?"

"No one. It's listed up at the top, after genre, along with humor. Ya just gotta look up."

Arthur glances above himself in search of this elusive description, but alas, he doesn't get the beauty of fourth-wall breaking. All he finds is a dark oppressive sky, oppressive like the clouds have taken over the sky to form a totalitarian government ruling over the atmosphere itself.

Finding nothing to explain the context of the situation, Arthur looks back at Alfred, prepared to either question him further or give an uncomfortable goodbye. He finds Alfred's face close enough to kiss. Oh wait, he is kissing Arthur. Or Arthur's kissing him. It's very confusing and there are lips pressing together, and sparks are flying, and Arthur would really take a moment to remark on how cliché this all is but his lips are rather occupied and he can't find it in himself to step away.

The moment comes to an end once Alfred leans back. He stares into Arthur's glimmering geodes, both men breathing slightly heavier.

"You taste like hamburgers," Alfred says huskily by way of compliment and Arthur nearly swoons.

Alfred turns and walks down the sidewalk, disappearing into the night. Arthur stands there for a long minute. His fingers graze lightly over his mouth where he was touched by the sweet thrill of gay.

Luckily Arthur is still standing there when Alfred comes sprinting back, completely ruining his dramatic exit from earlier when he gasps out, "I forgot to give you my number!" Alfred quickly pulls out a business card. Not _his_ business card, but one he happened to have on him and can write his name and number messily on the back. He pushes the card into Arthur's hand before Arthur can catch up to what's happening. Then Alfred nods and goes to leave again.

"Cheerio," Arthur calls to him weakly.

Alfred smiles back over his shoulder and waves. "Fruit loops to you too, dude."

* * *

 **This is the stupidest thing I've ever written and I love it. Thank you to SomethingMoreQ, a reviewer of mine who inspired this.**


End file.
